


A Theater Full of Ghosts

by mawmawile



Category: Vocaloid
Genre: Gen, Ghosts, Nostalgia, Operas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:27:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22109356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mawmawile/pseuds/mawmawile
Summary: Prima reflects on her career, and meets someone unlikely.
Kudos: 5





	A Theater Full of Ghosts

It was raining the night Prima left her apartment to visit the opera house.

On the rainy night Prima went to the opera house, she wore all black, and wore no makeup. As she walked through the city, her umbrella acted as a shield around her, blocking anyone from meeting her eyes

The streets were musicless. Cars buzzed by, windshield wipers fast, uncaring about anything in the world. Hardly anyone was walking on the wet sidewalks, and all who were dressed long and warm and quiet. There was no one on Prima’s side of the road.

All around her she saw dreariness, as she walked. Few diners sat within the city’s dimly lit restaurants; drug stores stood empty save for their owners; abandoned buildings held inside only darkness. Everything was doomed to die.

The opera house used to be a grand place. It was built two hundred years ago by Sir Jasper Adams, a patron of the arts and esteemed novelist, poet, essayist, and painter. Its inaugural show garnered a massive crowd, performing for a full house for the two weeks it was shown. Landscapers maintained a lovely garden around the building, a splash of color in an otherwise grey town.

It was as grey as the rest of town, now. The once white bricks had not been cleaned in decades, the windows dusty and old. The trees and flowers in the garden were slowly replaced by nothing but grass. Prima looked up at the building with weary eyes before entering through the worn wooden doors.

Its insides smelled like dust. Crowds used to congregate here before and after a performance, and it sometimes would be very difficult to walk around. Prima remembered entering the atrium after the show, occasionally still in costume, asking people what they thought. Listening to their praise.

But now it was empty, the antechambers not stood in, the couches not sat on. Prima moved on.

As she climbed the stairs to the theater, Prima realized how long it had been since she was here, in the audience. Her mother used to take her here, and that was in fact when she had learned her love for opera. That day was the day Prima resolved to be a star.

Walking to the stage was hypnotic. In her head, she could imagine it. The diminuendo of voices in the audience, the orchestra warming up in the pit. The stage was dark, and she could almost pretend it would alight soon.

Yet it was still dark. Standing on the stage alone, watching the audience below was a sight she knew well. If she closed her eyes, Prima could imagine that day again.

She was the _prima_ , the leading woman of the opera. She was so young then, so brimming with happiness. And when she sang, the audience was entranced. The first day she performed that show, Prima felt like she was floating. She had all she wanted.

So she began to sing. She began to sing the first aria she sang on this stage, her soprano voice ringing through the entire auditorium. It was a mournful song, once mourning the loss of a father, now mourning the loss of a love.

There was no one here to listen, no one but the ghosts of her past. Her song ended. There was no applause.

What a pitiful thing, entrenched in dust and old memories. She started to turn—

“That was wonderful.”

Prima screamed in surprise, not expecting anyone to be here. She turned to the source of the voice. “So sorry, I didn’t expect anyone else to be here.”

The person who had spoken was a young girl with pale skin and hair. She wore long gown with a large skirt, her head covered by a bonnet. “It’s fine. Do you sing?”

“I… used to. Not anymore,” Prima said. “Why are you here?”

“I’m always here.” The girl smiled, a ghastly expression. “Who are you?”

“I’m Prima.” She held out her hand. “And what is your name?”

The girl looked at Prima’s hand with an inscrutable face. Then, hesitantly, she moved her right hand to shake it, but—but—it phased right through. “My name is Gumina Adams, but just call me Gumi. I’m nineteen years old, and it has been one hundred and seventy-five years since I was murdered. You are the first person I’ve seen since I died.”

Prima blinked, wanting to jump at her disbelief. But Gumi’s face was serious, and—Prima couldn’t deny her own eyes. “You’re a ghost?” The words sounded stupid out of her own mouth.

“Yes, I’m—I’ve been alone here.” Gumi moved toward her, her eyes pleading. “I need your help.”

“What do you need?” Ghost or not, she was still a girl. Her face was young, her voice hopeful. Prima couldn’t deny that. Prima couldn’t deny _her_.

“I need you to bring my murderer to justice,” Gumi said. “It’s the only way I can move on.”

Prima’s life for so long had been about performing, about dressing in lovely costumes, about singing songs from the heart. That was all long gone, now. It was so far away. The life she had lived was outdated. What was left for her to live for?

Maybe, she could think of one. Gumi clasped her hands, not saying anything yet. “Okay. I’ll help you.”

“Thank you!” Her voice was quiet, yet happy tears sprung at the corner of her eyes.

“Do you know, who…” Prima trailed off.

Gumi nodded. “Yes. The person who murdered me was Jasper Adams, my father.”


End file.
